


A Piece of His Heart

by athena_crikey



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: AU, Adopted Daughter, Angst, Death-switching, Friendship, Gen, I mean you don't have to squint that hard, Slash if you squint, cannonical and non-cannonical deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Bush's grip on the infant is awkward but firm – he has memory enough of two younger sisters to have no fear of dropping her, but there is something intensely embarrassing about holding his captain’s child. It is like holding a piece of Hornblower’s heart, something naked and intimate that he can’t help but feel he has no right to see or touch.OR: The AU where Bush and Young Maria live.
Relationships: William Bush & Horatio Hornblower
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	A Piece of His Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Several years ago I started writing this fic with the premise that instead of Hornblower and young Richard living, Bush and Young Maria do. Probably will never be finished but I like it so much I wanted to share...

He forgets about it later, because truth be told it doesn’t make much of an impression on him, but the first time Bush holds Young Maria she’s still a baby in swaddling clothes. Although he doesn’t know it he’s the first man apart from her father to hold her, and at the moment his only thought is that he wishes he were anywhere but in his captain’s front room. But Hornblower has just received orders to have the ship ready before the evening tide which means he can’t afford to lose the opportunity to give his first lieutenant his orders, even if it’s while his wife is hurriedly mending his shirts as he himself tips books and papers into the bottom of his sea chest. 

The whole of the tiny lodgings is in disarray, drawers lying open, bottles and boxes piled up haphazardly in little heaps on the floor, worn clothes hanging over tables and chairs. Young Horatio totters happily through the mess, chasing after a colourful ball and occasionally knocking boxes over with a delighted chuckle. The atmosphere isn’t improved by a small cherry-red pot-bellied stove sitting solidly in the corner, heating the room to a stifling temperature. 

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Bush. I’ll only be a minute with these shirts. Really, what you must think of us.” Mrs. Hornblower shakes her head as she stitches frantically, white on white in the dim light that filters through the small, dirty windows. “Oh those Admirals – why they can never give even a moment’s notice before –”

“Don’t trouble yourself, ma’am,” breaks in Bush, sensing the captain’s hackles rising at the criticism of their lords and masters. “She’s naught but a mite. Can’t hardly weight 10 pounds,” he adds, rocking her gently in assessment. His grip is awkward but firm – he has memory enough of two younger sisters to have no fear of dropping her, but there is something intensely embarrassing about holding his captain’s child. It is like holding a piece of Hornblower’s heart, something naked and intimate that he can’t help but feel he has no right to see or touch.

“Yes, that’s what Horatio said as well. He was always right with Young Horatio. You men and your weights.” She shakes her head and knots the thread with a quick loop, breaking it with her teeth just as Bush’s sisters always did, before picking up the next shirt.

“It’s just a knack, ma’am,” replies Bush, refraining from the statement that the infant in his arms is almost precisely the weight of a sack of finely ground gunpowder. Any sailor learns his weights early enough – pease rations, rolls of duck, oakum bales. Officers learn it better than most, always having to have one eye on the purser’s scales.

“Bush, about her knees,” begins the captain, meaning the ship’s, not Young Maria’s, and Bush steps over to receive his orders. In his arms, the baby sleeps on.

  
***

Bush is there the day they bury Young Horatio, but only because of an accident of the most hideous timing. In town for two weeks while the shipyard tried to coax another few years from the ancient _Pegase_ ’s iron-sick timbers, he had intended only to stop by to pay his respects to Hornblower, reported by the rumour-mill to be between assignments. He is even whistling a jaunty tune between his teeth when the door is opened.

The sight of a red-eyed Mrs. Hornblower in a black cap and black-lined pelisse chokes the music from his lips; it is as though an invisible hand has grabbed his throat and throttled him tightly until his chest begins to ache. She stares at him blankly for a moment, and then to Bush’s shock gives him the ghost of a smile.

“Oh, Mr. Bush,” she says in a low tone, her voice hoarse, “I was afraid he would have no friends to stand by him.”

“Ma’am?” Bush has by now remembered himself enough to straighten into a more dignified stance and pull the hat from his head; the shock of seeing Mrs. Hornblower in mourning garb did the work of wiping the levity from his face for him.

“The funeral, Mr. Bush,” she answers. And then, hearing a voice from within, opens the door to him and steps back. “Mr. Bush, Horatio.”

Bush takes a step into the small sitting room, and stops at the sight of the coffin on the table. It is too large for an infant, but much too small for an adult, one side bowing out crookedly due to a warp in the cheap wood. Someone has wrapped it lovingly in dark crepe, and flowers have been laid over its top. 

“The Young Man,” says Bush, somewhere between a question and a statement, and looks up to see his white-faced captain enter the room. He has never seen Hornblower look so ill, not on the day of his wedding, not even during the roughest storms after long stays in port. The skin of his face looks thin and papery, there are dark inky stains under his eyes, and sweat beading across his forehead. His hair has not been pulled back tightly enough, and strands have escaped to hang loose about his face – they give him the appearance of a man just awoken from a nightmare.

“Mr. Bush.” His voice too is hoarse, although Bush suspects with suppressed emotion rather than tears. His wife hurries past him, brushing a hand against his elbow as she slips by before disappearing into the back room. 

“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t intend – that is, I didn’t know. I – my condolences, sir” 

Hornblower’s eyes start to slide towards the table. He stops before they can, blinking slowly, and turns them back to Bush. “Thank you, William.”

Bush loosens slightly at his name. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” he says, far more at ease as a friend than a subordinate in this house of death. “But I would be glad to accompany you and your lady.”

Hornblower nods, dark curls falling in his face. “I would appreciate that.”

And so it is that Bush finds himself standing in a Southsea graveyard with his captain’s tiny family, watching sweating labourers bury a pine box in a common grave. Mrs. Hornblower and her mother weep for the tiny dead child; only his sister remains silent – she sleeps through the brief ceremony in her father’s arms. Hornblower holds her tightly, his long, fine hands white and clawed as though to keep her from being snatched away. 

Bush can only pray that his wish may be granted.

  
***

Bush does not see his captain’s family again, does not even think of them again, until the _Lydia_ is gliding through the warm waters of the South Pacific, homeward bound under reefed tops’ls alone. They sail in escort to the company of Indiamen, and some of the Company’s ships are right flat-bottomed tubs.

With the departure of Lady Barbara, there are no more oakum-stuffed cushions strewn about the taffrail, nor an officer aboard who would take advantage of them if there were. Bush stands by it none the less late in the middle watch, watching the Indiamen go about in slow succession in the light of the full moon. They tack one after another in the wake of _Lydia_ ’s smooth manoeuvre, several struggling to keep from missing stays. 

“Not even their crew seem to love them,” says a wry voice from behind him; Bush swivels to find the captain there, dark eyes staring past him in the moonlight to the crooked line of ships.

“Aye, and who could blame them? Look at that _Cumberland_ , or the _Lord Bredon_ – did you ever see such an ill-conceived piece of work? I’ll wager she can’t do seven knots with a full spread of sail.” Bush has known men to love their ships despite replete faults; has himself possessed heartfelt affection for some so unwieldy the men called them mean-spirited. But fat, slow Indiamen with no guns and no ability to hold a press of sails without breeching themselves – he cannot understand affection for them. 

Hornblower drifts over to stand at Bush’s shoulder, looking out into the uniform darkness behind them. The sea is only distinguished from the sky by the long silver line the moon has painted on it, stopping abruptly at the horizon. The yellowish glow of the ships’ lanterns hang in the darkness like swollen stars, rocking back and forth in the breeze.

“How is it that we all have the same hearts, and yet such different concepts of what they are made to feel?” mutters the captain, more to himself than Bush. His eyes are sweeping the trail of lights behind them, and Bush guesses that he is counting ships to find the _Hanbury Castle_. “How is it that two people may speak of love, and yet mean something utterly different?”

“I do not know, sir,” answers Bush, quietly enough that Hornblower may ignore it if he chooses to. Bush knows plainly enough what it is he loves: the sea, a stiff breeze and the spray in his face, the ship, and her captain. But he knows equally well that mankind ashore, even his sisters, would not understand. 

Bush has seen that light in Hornblower’s eyes as his cunning mind slots together a perfect puzzle out of disparate pieces; he has seen it with the ship sailing sleek and smooth as a dolphin; he has even seen something akin to it as the captain looked down at his infant daughter. But he has never yet seen it in Hornblower’s eyes as he watched any woman – not his wife, nor yet Lady Barbara.

He cannot help but wonder what it was that Lady Barbara said to him in the wake of his visit to the Spaniards’ ship, what regrets the captain bears. 

After a few more moments of silence, he moves away from the taffrail, leaving the captain alone to his contemplation.

  
***

It is with the _Sutherland_ moored in Plymouth harbour that the captain makes an allowance he never has before now. Bush is at the for’castle seeing to the supplies stored there when the cry of “Captain’s boat” goes up. The third lieutenant calls the bosun’s mates and sideboys; Bush contents himself with stepping over to his place and watching the approach of the captain’s gig. The sailors are in their best clothes, but they fall far behind the gig crews belonging to captains with the funds to outfit them in their own uniforms. The captain can barely keep himself in preserves, never mind buying suits of clothes for his subordinates to improve their looks.

Bush’s eyebrows rise at the sight of the small bundle perched on the captain’s lap. Young Maria is wrapped in a cloak against the light misting rain, staring with rapt attention as the 74 looms closer. 

“Bosun’s chair?” asks the second lieutenant, looking to Bush for his opinion. 

The child’s too young to reliably be hoisted aboard that way. “A sling will do,” replies Bush, and sees him hurry off to have one rigged. 

Young Maria comes over the side as her father is piped aboard, the lieutenants clustering to greet him with bared heads. Hornblower nods to them; as soon as he’s released from Hornblower’s glance Bush goes to fetch the captain’s daughter from the swarthy seaman freeing her from the sling. She hops into his arms and then down onto the deck; already seven years old and losing her baby fat, she’s leggy as a gangling mid as she runs up to her father, face wreathed in smiles. 

“Stay by my side,” Hornblower tells her repressively; she nods once and tucks in behind him, one hand holding his trouser leg. He looks to Bush, who returns his attention to his captain. “All in order?”

“Completing’s coming along, sir. Still the cordage and canvas to be brought onboard, and then the hard tack. A quarter of the crew’s still on leave.” The steadiest members of the crew – those who can be trusted not to run – have earned a longer rest ashore; it’s easier to load the ship with the thousands of tons of provisions she needs without a full crew crammed aboard. 

“We’ll make a brief tour, if you will, Mr Bush.”

“Yes, sir.”

Although the tour of the ship is Bush’s opportunity to point out the tremendous amount of work he’s managed to have done in the short time since the ship was commissioned, a chance other lieutenants would not dream of missing, Bush has known the captain long enough that he has no need to prove himself. He keeps himself to factual recounting of the details Hornblower can’t see for himself – the rations and equipment already brought aboard and yet to come, the state of the ship’s bilge and timbers, the reputation of the men. 

As they go, Hornblower points out items of interest to Young Maria. She is taken by the hourglasses with their white plunging sand, and by the seamen swarming up the ratlines like monkeys, busy testing and replacing any rigging in poor shape. Bush accompanies Hornblower to his cabin so he can see that it’s been made ready for his use, and the young girl inspects the trimmings of the sparse room while Bush receives his orders. Other captains would have had it outfitted with down-filled pillows and velvet drapes, or curiosities and prizes from former expeditions. Hornblower has none of these things but Bush thinks none the less of him for it. Indeed, he considers it a scandal that his captain should have to make do on what the Admiralty provides when he has done more than most officers on the list with far less. He had simply been unlucky when it comes to prizes. 

When Bush has received his orders (Spain and a parcel of Indiamen), Hornblower takes his place at his desk and begins to pore over the logs Bush has had prepared for him. Young Maria is capering about like a filly on cobblestones making a terrific noise in the sedate cabin, and Hornblower’s face is growing darker as he tries to concentrate. Finally she elicits an ominous crack from the captain’s bunk through jumping on it, and Hornblower snaps up. 

“Perhaps I could take the young lady on a tour of the ship,” proposes Bush hurriedly. 

Hornblower takes in a breath and lets it out in a sigh. “Thank you, William. Much appreciated. Bring her back if she gets to be too much trouble. You hear that, Maria? Go with Mr Bush and mind your manners. Don’t make a nuisance of yourself or I will have you sent back to your mother, and shan’t bring you again.”

“Yes, sir,” she pipes up, and trots over to Bush. She is uncommonly outgoing, a trait she surely can’t have learned from her father. She has his looks, though, thick dark curling hair and steady brown eyes. 

“Come along then,” says Bush with equanimity, and leads the way out of the cabin. “Your hand in mine as we go down the steps,” he adds, and reaches out. She tucks her tiny hand in his large, hoary one, a gentle warmth like a small fluttering bird caught in his grip. Her face is curious and eager as she scampers down the stairs alongside him; for an instant he thinks he sees a trace of her father in her, a hint of Hornblower’s bright intelligence in her eyes. 

He takes her down along the gun decks, the gunports currently closed and the overhead lanterns lighting the space but faintly so that the guns gleam like dark phantoms in the artificial twilight. There are men here sanding the decks and counting out the cannon supplies to ensure they’ve been allocated sufficiently. Bush orders a gunport to be opened and lifts Young Maria onto the end of the cannon so that she can see Portsmouth from the opening; she laughs and waves at the shore where her mother must be waiting.

Afterwards he takes her down into the orlop, opening a barrel of apples and producing one of the wizened fruit for her to eat. He shows her the casks of salted beef, each one more than twice her weight and filled to the brim with briny beef, and the barrels of water that will last them months on end. 

“Where is the rum?” she asks, peering around curiously. “Mama says the tars aboard ship drink nothing but rum.”

“They drink water too, miss, but the rum is under guard.”

“Why?” she asks, looking up at him.

“Because elsewise some of the men would do naught but drink,” he replies, and shepherds her along back to the ladder. He deems the hold too dark and dangerous, and the powder room also, and instead takes her through the officers’ quarters to the wardroom. 

“This is where the officers take their meals and spend their time when not on duty,” he explains, as she takes a seat on one of the benches along the long battered table. 

“Do you play commerce? Or loo?” she asks, running her fingers down a deep notch in the table’s surface.

“Some of the men play piquet, and the captain will invite us to whist sometimes.”

“Papa is terribly good at whist. Mama can’t play with him; she can’t remember the rules well enough,” she confides. 

“The captain is skilled at everything he turns his hand to,” agrees Bush. 

“I want to come with him to sea,” Young Maria announces, turning her face towards Bush. She’s all determination and innocence, a look he can remember seeing in Hornblower many years ago now – back in the Caribbean before things under Sawyer had gone so wrong. “I want to sail with Papa and eat salted beef and hard tack and play picket.”

Bush smiles. “It is an admirable dream, miss. But we do not take children to sea.”

She frowns. “What about the powder boys?”

“They are boys, and not much loved. You are far too precious.” In Bush’s mind there is no comparison between the grimy, foul powder monkeys and this bright young lady. “Someday soon your father will be famous – even more so than he is now. And you will be beautiful, rich and eligible. Spend your time dreaming on that instead.”

“What does it mean to be eligible?” she asks, canting her head to the side.

“It means you will make an excellent match.” With luck, a far better one than her father did. “Come along now, it’s time to be getting back.”

She hops down off the bench spryly as a sparrow and follows him out of the wardroom. He must return her to her father. She puts her hand in his, and he guides her back up to the main deck. 

For the first time since his sisters were young, Bush finds himself thinking that there may be some merit to children.

  
***

Bush steers the _Witch of Endor_ out of the harbour and into the channel, the world dark and silent around them. Much has changed since he was last at sea – _Sutherland_ is sunk, and his leg along with it. He, Hornblower and Brown have been fugitives in France for months, waiting out the winter and escaping downriver with the coming spring. And now, a cutter and a chance at real freedom.

What a commotion they will cause with their return – three men risen from the dead, and a lost cutter along with them. England will sing with news of them, and Hornblower will finally receive the recognition he’s due. Bush, and even Brown, will be paid out for the cutter. They will be in clover for the first time in their lives, will live like lords. Bush grins to think of it. 

They reach the _Triumph_ hiding in a thick bank of fog waiting to pounce on unsuspecting Frenchmen, and are themselves the biggest surprise the ship has ever received. Hornblower is taken immediately to speak with her captain – Hardy – while Bush and Brown wait in the cutter. Soon afterwards they are relieved by a crew from the _Triumph_ and sent aboard in a boat; Bush struggles a little with the long climb up her side, but having to ask for a bosun’s chair would be intolerable. 

On board he is met by the ship’s lieutenants, all agog to hear from him of his exploits – the sinking of the _Sutherland_ , Hornblower and his miraculous escape from the French, their retaking of the _Witch_. But Bush mulishly insists on knowing that the captain has been taken care of first, that he’s being well-treated by Hardy and welcomed. 

“No need to concern yourself about that, Mr Bush,” says the second lieutenant, an older man named Hawkings. “You’re both heroes of the empire, now. The captain won’t dare touch a hair on Hornblower’s head. Mind you, the news isn’t all good…”

Bush glances at him, colouring with affront. “What do you mean?”

“Hornblower’s wife died some months back in childbirth. It was reported in the _Gazette_. Caused a fair taking, too. Outpouring of public sympathy and all that.”

Bush feels a thickness in his throat. “And the child?”

“The child died also,” says Hawkings.

“No – the daughter. Young Maria. She must be nearly eight years old by now.”

“There was no report of her,” replies Hawkings. “Hornblower didn’t leave much money behind, I understand. She may have been taken in by friends, or otherwise it would be the orphanage.”

Bush swallows thickly. Hornblower had no friends on land that he knows. The idea of his tiny, lively daughter shipped away all alone to an orphanage twists his heart. It’s as though a piece of Hornblower had been cut away and forgotten by society, a piece that deserved not obscurity but praise and lavish support. 

Hornblower and he are kept apart, not by intention but by the simple fact of rank within the service, while they remain on the _Triumph_. As soon as they regain the fleet Hornblower is transferred to the flagship, with Bush following on afterwards. He’s met by a lieutenant there who informs him that there is mail for him, and for Hornblower as well. 

His share is one sole letter from his sisters, although it is quite thick. Hornblower has a pile of them, as well as a long heavy package which can be nothing but a sword. Bush sets it all down on the bunk that’s been allotted to him and opens his letter. 

He reads that his sisters are overjoyed by the astounding news of his survival and escape from France. That they have never been more proud of him, that he is a national hero and the entire village has been visiting to offer congratulations.

But there is a much more important piece of unlooked for news in the second paragraph. _As you may know, William, your captain’s wife and unborn child died some three months back in childbed. Knowing of your affection for Captain Hornblower and the heroic manner of what we then supposed to be his death, when no other stepped forward to take the surviving child we offered her a home. Young Maria is living with us, and enlivening our tiny cottage with her spirit and wit every day. We have told her that her father lives, and she is eager to be reunited. She still longs to go to sea despite everything, and if you can arrange the money one of us will bring her to Portsmouth to see her father. We may then discuss her future._

The letter returns to its earlier theme of overjoyed expressions of love and amazement, and Bush only scans it briefly before folding it up and tucking it into his pocket. 

As he’s finishing the ship’s first lieutenant appears at his door to ask if there is anything he needs; Bush requests a visit to Hornblower which is granted. 

The captain, tucked away in a small cabin all to himself, looks pale and miserable. His long thin hands are tight and wiry, his white face a well of shadows. Like waxed paper, Bush can almost imagine that if he were held up to the sun its light would shine through. 

Bush comes bearing in his arms the letters and parcels from Hornblower’s well-wishers ashore. He lays them down on the table in the cabin and starts as he must start: “I was sorry to hear about Mrs Hornblower, sir. And the child.”

“Thank you, William,” replies Hornblower softly. They neither of them need to say anything more; they know each other too well. He can read Hornblower’s grief in his face, his voice, the movement of his chest as he breathes. In Bush’s view the captain’s wife was more a burden than a boon, but he would be inhuman if he did not feel her loss. And Hornblower is all too human.

“I have some unexpected news, sir. From my sisters.” He waits for the captain to look up, and continues. “It seems they took Young Maria in when your good lady died. She is happy and safe at their cottage in Chichester, and they will make arrangements for her to be brought to Portsmouth. You aren’t alone, sir,” he finishes softly, for a moment making to reach for Hornblower’s arm and then thinking the better of it.

Hornblower blinks, and slowly warmth grows in his face. “Maria,” he breathes. “Little Maria.”

“She will be waiting for you when you go ashore, sir, if I can arrange it.”

Hornblower stands and takes Bush’s hand in his. His skin is cold and clammy, but now there is a new life in his face, an undisguised love that makes Bush’s heart flutter oddly in his chest. “Thank you, William. Thank you.”

“Your servant as always,” replies Bush, and presses his hand.


End file.
